Red Blood, White Flames and Blue Tears
by Shaded Reality
Summary: On the news, he vaguely made out that one of the Towers was falling. He couldn't help but wonder, "Where is everyone else in all of this?" A 9/11 oneshot. USUK.


A/N: A 9/11 oneshot. I'm not that good at writing angsty fics, but I wanted to try. I hope you enjoy.

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><p>England was pissed. He was in Washington D.C. for a world meeting, and when it was time for the meeting to start, America was nowhere to be found. This had caused a series of debates and arguments over where he was. No matter how much the meetings bored him, America would never pass up an opportunity to pitch his latest plan for saving the world. There was absolutely no way he would ever miss a meeting in his own capitol, anyway.<p>

This had led to some of the nations getting worried, mildly irritated or extremely angry. Which had caused the meeting to burst into arguments, fights and drinking contests.

When England finally couldn't take it anymore, he just got up, told Germany he was going to look for America and walked out. The stoic blond nation had just nodded, looking as if he wanted to pound his head against the wall until he was unconscious, and England could hardly blame him.

Now he was wandering the streets of the city, trying to find America's house. England had been stomping along for twenty minutes, and he was fed up with the stupid layout of the city. *

He was just about to quit and go back to the meeting when he saw a large house that he knew _had _to be America's house. How did he know? There was a huge flagpole in the yard, with an American flag to fit. For some reason the flag was at half-mast, but England just ignored it and walked up to the front door and knocked on it.

When he received no answer, he just huffed and tried the door. It was locked, but England knew that America was an idiot and probably hid his key under the mat or something.

When he checked, he found that he was proven right. England unlocked the door and went inside, closing the door behind him. He took the keys with him to put them on the counter in the kitchen.

England half turned, and from his position in the kitchen, he could make out a certain American's form on the couch. America has just laying, his arms crossed under his head, staring at the ceiling.

"America you bloody git! Why aren't you at the meeting?" hissed England, walking into the other room to stand in front of the other nation.

America slightly turned his head and asked, "Do you know the date, England?"

"Excuse me?" asked England, slightly taken aback by the American's flat voice and dull blue eyes, the usual sparkle in them gone.

"The date. Do you know it?" repeated America, though in a tone that said he already knew the date.

"Of course I do you idiot! Now come on, we have to get back to the meeting," replied England, uncomfortable with America's unusual lack of excitement and loudness.

"Tell me the date," said America, gazing back up at the ceiling.

"Fine! It's the eleventh of Septem-" started England, though suddenly realizing something rather important.

"Yes… it's the eleventh of September," said America, staring blankly at the ceiling, though one hand slowly drifted towards his chest, as if his subconscious was in pain and needed to grab at the source.

"Nine eleven," said England weakly. How could he have forgotten about that? How could _all_ of the nations forget about that? Just thinking about it made him feel awful, and the attacks weren't even on his side of the Atlantic.

"Yes," replied America, and England could have sworn he saw some grief and pain flash through those cerulean blue eyes.

"America…" England truly didn't know what to say, though he could clearly see that the event that had happened a decade ago still troubled the younger nation.

"It's rather strange, really," said America, filling the silence that was hanging in the room, "that the ghost of a memory can still be this painful."

The younger nation's eyes clouded over, whether in memory or in pain was anyone's guess.

"Well, at least the mastermind is gone," said England weakly, though he knew he sounded more as if he was asking a question than reassuring the American.

"It's just another death, another tally mark to add to the wall. Whether he's gone or not, the memory still lingers on," said America sadly, sighing.

England mentally slapped himself for being so stupid as to think saying that would help. He could see clearly now that America was in pain. It distressed him to see the usually energetic American just laying on the couch staring up at the ceiling.

"If you want, I could help and share some of the burden," offered England, though he didn't know _why_ he said it.

But America just shook his head. "I don't want you to have to carry my problems for me."

"Well then, could I at least see what happened from your point of view?" asked England, who was now truly curious about what could have been so bad as to get the young nation like this.

America just shrugged, "If that's really what you want, then go ahead, if you can."

"Alright then. I'll need your hand," said England, grateful that America was allowing him to help even in such a small way.

America just held out his hand and didn't bother to ask questions, he only said, "Just don't make me relive it again."

England nodded and took the blue-eyed nation's hand. He inhaled deeply then closed his eyes and concentrated.

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><p>England opened his eyes again, and found he was in the same house, but was now seeing things from America's point of view**, and was doing the exact same things as America must have been doing that morning. It was as if he just stepped into America's body. He saw, heard, smelt, felt and tasted all of the same things as America did.<p>

When a clock flashed past, he saw that it was eight forty in the morning. The news was on and he seemed to be drinking something bitter and disgusting from a red white and blue mug.

It had to be coffee. England wanted to shudder in disgust, but he didn't. The clock on the cable box now read right forty-five; he wondered how much it would hurt when the first impact came in less than a minute. He then set the mug down on the coffee table and got up, probably to get ready for the day or something.

But just then a jagged pain ripped into his consciousness, right in the center of his chest. England gasped for breath as he fell to his knees, clutching his chest. The pain made gasping for breath even harder, especially when he began to choke on something.

England coughed up whatever had been choking him and spit it out. It turned out that it was a glop of blood. He stayed there for what he thought was only a few minutes, though it turned out that it had been about fifteen minutes.

The news was still on, the hosts saying things like, "We are still unsure whether this was an accident or if it was intentional" as well as interviewing some witnesses. On screen there was footage of the North Tower, smoking.

As he watched, another plane entered the screen, flying directly towards the towers. It exploded in a large ball of flame, knocking England down onto the ground. This new impact caused new pain to flare up, magnifying the pain from before.

It was now rather painful for England to breathe, and he would often choke on blood. Soon there was a small puddle of blood forming near his face. When England found the strength to look at the clock again, the numbers read **9:36**. The pain that England was feeling had blocked the talk on the news of a terrorist attack out.

Suddenly, another sharp pain entered England's nerves. This one though, was right where his heart was. As he lay on the ground, England felt tears start to well up in his eyes. They were partly form his own pain, but mostly for those who were trapped inside of the buildings.

He furiously tried to hold his tears back; some live footage on the news caught his attention. The Towers were burning with white-hot flames, and thousands of papers filled the air like confetti. He saw people furiously waving flags of different materials, trying to draw attention to get rescued.

There were still people trapped inside the buildings that couldn't get out. He saw someone jump. The tears now flowed freely down England's face, making trails for the tears to come after. He felt as if it was his fault. For not seeing this coming, for not being able to help. It was his fault that all of these citizens were dying and suffering.

England tried to look at the clock again, but the tears that were flowing down his face obscured it. On the news, he vaguely made out that one of the Towers was falling. This new pain was hardly even registered in his brain as he though of all the people still inside.

However long later, England couldn't tell, but he saw the other Tower fall. Lying on the ground, he felt unconsciousness slipping towards him. And as the world slowly faded to black, he couldn't help but feel extreme loneliness. He couldn't help but wonder, '_Where is everyone else in all of this?'_

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><p>England gasped and opened his eyes, falling backwards and clawing at his chest. America still lay where he had before.<p>

"I know I shouldn't have let you do that. No one should have had to bear that but me," said America dully, looking over at England.

England was still gasping for breath, his eyes wide, but managed to say, "No, America. This was not the kind of burden that you should have to carry by yourself."

"I have to, England. It haunts me every year, and I don't want that to happen to anybody else. You'll never be able to forget now. You should have just let well enough alone," said America, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Before you blacked out, why did you feel so lonely?" asked England, trying to change the subject.

"I was on the ground in my own blood England. No one was around to help or comfort me, I didn't even have the luxury of hearing someone else's voice, or feeling their presence with me," replied America, his voice quivering.

"… America…" England had no idea what to do _again._ It was clear to him that the cerulean-eyed nation needed to let some of this out.

"Even listening to all of the other nations' messages the next day, or whatever day it was, I still felt like that. No one even cared enough to visit," whispered America, voice barely audible.

"America. You can't keep going on like this. You have to let other people help," said England firmly. He had made up his mind that he wouldn't leave until America had let out at least some of his burdens.

"I can't, England. I'll just end up hurting them, and I can't protect them from myself. Just like I couldn't help all those people ten years ago," said America, tears starting to stream down his face.

"America. Let me help," said England, his voice softening.

America sat up, wiping the tears from his face, even though new ones instantly replaced them. He shook his head. "I don't want you to have to carry my burdens for me," said America, tears now pouring down his face.

England replied softly, "I'm doing this because I want to, America. Not because I have to."

At this, America cried even harder, his deep blue eyes obscured by tears.

"Will you let me help now?" asked England quietly.

When America gave a small nod of his head, England got up and sat next to him. He took of America's glasses and wiped away the tears with his thumb, trying to stop them from streaming down the younger nation's face.

"England…" said America, his voice thick with tears. America tried to slow his tears, but it didn't work. So he just stopped trying to prevent them and let them fall freely. "England," cried America, now sobbing.

"There there, it's alright. I'm here for you now," said England, wrapping his arms around the sobbing American.

"It was all my fault England!" cried America, hugging England and burying his face in the elder nation's shoulder.

"And why do you think that?" asked England soothingly, ignoring the tears that now wet his shirt.

"I should have seen it coming, and I couldn't do anything for all of those people who were trapped," sobbed America, his voice muffled by the fabric of England's shirt.

"America… there was nothing you could have done for them. You're still alive, and they live on in your spirit," replied England, rubbing America's back soothingly.

"They never even did anything! I should've- I could have…" America broke down once again into renewed tears at the thought of all of the victims of that awful day ten years ago.

"America. Look at me," said England.

America picked his head up just enough so that they could see eye to eye.

"What's important is that you're still alive. That you're still here," said England, looking directly into America's cerulean eyes.

"B-but…"

"They died in an attack that was meant to be the downfall of you. They wanted to cause chaos for you so that you could be killed. It didn't work," said England, cutting off America.

"It was meant for me to die…" said America softly, repeating the words that England had just said.

"All of those people, they would have wanted you to keep on living, no matter what," continued England, though this time rather softly, looking deeply into America's eyes.

"England…" said America, tears still trickling down his face.

"I love you," whispered England, though he said it very quietly this time.

"… I couldn't hear you," said America, his blue eyes searching England's green ones for some clue as to what he said.

"You _can _hear me. I can hear you. The world can hear you. All of those people, the ones that were in the Towers, they can hear you," said England, his gaze softening as he looked into the endless blue oceans that were America's eyes.

"England…" said America again, though this time with only one tear still on his face.

England reached out and wiped away the last tear and whispered into America's ear, "I love you."

Cerulean blue eyes widened as they gazed into emerald green eyes. England's hand remained where the tear was and traced down the lines left by the other tears.

"…I love you too, England," said America quietly, reaching up to hold the green-eyed nation's hand.

England gazed into the America's blue eyes and felt like he could see right down into his heart. The older nation then leaned in until he felt his lips gently touch America's.

The one thing that England would always remember would be the taste of tears on America's lips.

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><p>AN: ... It's bad, isn't it? Oh well. At least I tried.

I just wanted to write this for everyone who died today ten years ago. Especially for those who went in to rescue others and never came back out.

* - I heard that the street layout of DC is _really _confusing and hard to navigate, but since I've never been there, I don't know for sure.

** - When England was experiencing America's memories, it was like he actually _was _America, but like he was on autopilot because he was just reliving the memory.


End file.
